Martyr's Moon
by wordwolf
Summary: NipTuck-CSI:Miami crossover. Can science and love protect those marked for death by an evil decades in the planning?
1. Default Chapter

Martyr's Moon

(Nip/Tuck / CSI:Miami)

DISCLAIMERS: Characters from Nip/Tuck are the property of Ryan Murphy (long may he push our envelopes). Characters from CSI: Miami are the property of Jerry Bruckheimer (long may he blow stuff up). Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended.

Lyrics of "Love Is the Drug" and "Avalon" written by Bryan Ferry. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended.

"Talking in Bed" written by Philip Larkin. Untitled poem written by Denis Johnson. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended.

This story may be reproduced and distributed without charge if proper author credit is given and disclaimers are retained. Feedback is welcome.

THIS FANFICTION MAY CONTAIN SCENES OF VIOLENCE, STRONG LANGUAGE, ADULT SITUATIONS AND NUDITY AND THEREFORE MAY BE UNSUITABLE FOR CHILDREN UNDER 17. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

MARTYR'S MOON

(Nip/Tuck / CSI:Miami)

By wordwolf

PART I.

The body lay still in a puddle of blood and moonlight, yellow tape marking the awful divide between normality and crime scene. Horatio Caine looked from the dead woman up to the window from which she had fallen, then back to the corpse. Light and noise were still pouring from the thirteenth-floor apartment, and more lights were coming on all over the fashionable condominium complex. The uniformed officers were doing a fine job of holding back the swarm of the curious, and the detectives were busy up in the apartment, securing the scene and taking statements from everyone on the premises. Caine sighed, contemplating the destroyed young life at his feet.

"H." The chief of the Miami Police Department's Crime Scene Investigation unit turned to hear his subordinate's report. "Her name's Blair Blackwood. That's her condo she fell from. Had a little get-together going on for some friends from work."

"It must have been one hell of a party." Caine looked down at her again, noting the shattered head of the victim, the blood spattered all over her long blonde hair and delicate silk robe. Then he returned his attention to CSI Timothy Speedle. "Speed, do you entertain wearing nothing but a bathrobe?"

"Only one guest at a time," Speedle replied with a wry grin.

"Exactly. What kind of work are we talking about?"

The wryness stayed. "Miss Blackwood was a big success in the field of adult video. Played a popular character – maybe way too popular – named Mistress Scorpio. Whips, chains, all that wholesome family entertainment."

"Cute. What else do we know?"

"The story we've got so far: Blair 'Mistress Scorpio' Blackwood and about ten or eleven of her distinguished colleagues were re-enacting 'Boogie Nights' upstairs at her place, complete with various controlled substances. Blair picked one of the guys, they retired into one of the bedrooms for a little while – SOP for her parties, of course."

"Of course." Caine nodded. "Cut to the chase, Speed. Did she jump or was she pushed?"

"Pushed. No question. About six of them saw her and the guy come out of the bedroom, open the French doors, and wander onto the balcony. Everyone watched as she climbed up on the balcony rail, sat there with her arms held out. She looked all excited and happy, they say. Then she shouted, 'The blue moon is the new moon!' –"

"What?"

"We got five witnesses say the same thing: she said 'The blue moon is the new moon.' And the guy, the one she'd been with, just strolled up behind her, put his hands on her back, and shoved. This is the creepiest part: the same witnesses say that as she went over, she wasn't screaming."

Caine's eyes narrowed. "Was she silent?"

"No. She was laughing."

The CSI chief shook his head. "She must have been coked up to the eyeballs. But this one's going to be open and shut. Who was the guy?"

"No one knows."

"WHAT?!" Now this was a stunner. "Nobody recognized him? Didn't all these people know each other?"

Speedle shrugged. "Apparently not."

"Did they at least stop him? Someone had the presence of mind to call 911. Did ten people just let a killer walk out?"

"Apparently so." Speedle shrugged helplessly. "Look, H, this is all looking a lot weirder than when we came in. Eric's been talking to the detectives upstairs, and they say that no one in the condo will even give them a description of the pusher. It's as if they're all afraid of reprisals – or maybe no one really got a good look at him. With all the blow and pills they've got up there, who knows what anyone saw." The younger investigator tried to sound optimistic. "Maybe there was a written guest list."

"Are you kidding, Speed?"

"It was a thought."

"I understand. We need all the leads we can get. With a little luck, we'll have some semen to work with." Caine's voice cooled. "Speed, I want you to get back up there and see to it that everyone in that apartment, male and female, is swabbed and printed. I want that robe dusted for prints. And I'm having Alexx push through the blood work ASAP. I want this psycho."

"Right, H. We all do."

XX

"Tell me what you don't like about yourself." Dr. Sean McNamara asked the standard interview question, while beside him Dr. Christian Troy sized up the prospective patient. Not a bad prospect, at first glance: twentysomething, a little shorter than he preferred but slender enough, smooth shoulder-length dark hair. Face had an exotic cast, with nice color and dark, slightly angled eyes; she could be Eurasian. He could tell that she wasn't here for a boob job. Good. Not at all shabby for the first new consult on a Monday morning.

The woman didn't answer. She wouldn't meet their eyes. McNamara leaned forward and kept his voice soft. "Miss Avalon," he said gently, "we can't help you if we don't know how."

She drew breath as if steeling herself. "Then I'd better show you." With an almost stiff dignity she stood up and turned around, putting her back to the doctors, then took hold of her blouse and pulled it up. With the other hand, she pushed down the waist of her skirt.

The mark began at the base of her spine, with a point spreading out into a hook. The hook bled into a curve that was made up of short segments, moving up the back, around and above her right hip. Slowly and smoothly, she turned to face them.

Only professionalism kept the plastic surgeons from gasping. There, sprawling across her otherwise perfect torso, was the rest of the scorpion. Black, bruise-like, its once crisp detail blurred by age and growth, it defaced most of her abdomen. The eight legs were partly drawn up under the arthropod body, and the pincers were reaching up towards the left breast from below, open as if to strike at her heart from both sides.

The junior partner of McNamara/Troy almost whistled. "Well, Miss Avalon, I can understand why you're here."

She smiled wryly. "If I may get to the point, can you get this thing off me?"

"I'm sure we can," McNamara said reassuringly. He rose and approached. "May I take a closer look?"

She nodded. McNamara came around the desk and bent to peer at the hideous tattoo. "Miss Avalon, when was this applied?"

"I'm not precisely sure, but I've had it almost since I can remember."

The thought almost made him shiver. Well, they could explore that later, the senior plastic surgeon reasoned. Right now was the time to reassure the patient. "We'll see to it that you don't have it much longer." McNamara straightened up again as his partner came over. "Unfortunately, it IS pretty big. It's going to take more than a few sessions with the laser to eradicate it all, with three weeks between each to give the skin time to absorb - "

To their astonishment, she went pale. "Oh, no! That won't do, not at all! This blight has got to go within a week or two, and I don't care what it takes!"

Her vehemence took them both aback. McNamara narrowed his eyes. "I have to ask you: If it has to be taken off by a deadline, why did you wait so long to come to us?" Troy almost smirked; HE could think of a reason or two, all having to do with the need to strip in the presence of a member of the opposite sex. This poor bitch was likely pushing thirty and still a virgin.

The woman raised and dropped her hands in a gesture of utter helplessness. "The truth? With the cost of living in this city what it is, I haven't been able to afford it. I've been saving up for the operation as best I can, but I still don't have enough."

"Then why rush it now? Miss Avalon, this is surgery we're talking about, elective or not!"

Now she met McNamara's eyes for the first time. "I know what you're going to think of me once you hear this, Dr. McNamara. But without making any claims for myself, I've just had too many strange things happen to and around me to ignore my instincts when they scream at the top of their metaphorical voices." Another up-and-down of her hands. "How to explain it? Either this horror goes or I do."

Behind her where she couldn't see him, Troy sighed quietly. Another nutcase. Damn, and he thought she'd had possibilities. Couldn't this practice get any female patients who weren't drug-addled, old as the hills, or just plain crazy? Well, it'd been too long since he'd had a shot at a virgin. This Karen Avalon might be good for a little fun.

"But what's the point anyway? I still can't afford you." She lowered her eyes and tucked her blouse back in.

"Don't concern yourself with that," Troy replied, turning on his medium-wattage smile. "We've been known to adjust our fees, even do a certain portion of our work pro bono under circumstances like these. Wiping out this sucker, if you don't mind my saying so, qualifies as a public service." He turned the smile up a little brighter, and was gratified to see a shy answering smile from her. Yes, this could be worth it after all.

The senior partner watched with a distinct air of disapproval. "But there's still the issue of methodology. Miss Avalon, would you mind waiting for us a moment? Christian?" McNamara led the way out of their consulting room, and Troy quietly prepared himself for yet another scolding.

"Christian, what the hell were you thinking?" McNamara growled, pacing the practice's break room. "Oh, she's pretty. Never mind; I know what you were thinking."

"Please, Sean." Troy rolled his eyes. "You heard her. If we don't get that disgusting thing off her ASAP, she'll just go doctor-shopping until she finds someone who will. Someone who will leave her more scarred and in worse danger of infection than we will, by the way, if that matters to you."

"It matters more than anything else at this point. The laser won't scar at all, and doesn't require anesthesia. What it does require is time. We can't possibly abrade a tattoo that big."

"We can excise it, Sean. Cut the whole ugly thing away, stitch the wound closed on the narrower parts like the tail and claws, and harvest a graft to patch the main body. We can take it off in one operation, just like she wants."

"I know. But why does she want that?" McNamara's concern was genuine. "Why the hurry? Would YOU make a decision like this on a premonition?"

"I'm not her, Sean. Whatever her reasons, she's not going to wait for a full laser course, and she's better off in our hands than being butchered by some lazy dermatologist."

McNamara snorted. "Maybe if she were in another doctor's care, you could get into her pants with fewer ethical ramifications."

Troy shot him a look that could have raised welts.

"Besides, this is just too weird," McNamara continued. "According to her forms, Karen Avalon is twenty-seven years old. That tattoo is at least twenty. Christian, who tattoos a child? With a giant black scorpion? Who, or WHAT, are her parents?"

"Maybe if we take her on as a patient, we can find out," Troy replied with a smirk. "Like we haven't had weirder cases than this?"

"You have a point," his partner conceded. "She'll definitely be happier without it – and we can do a better job of it, as you said."

They returned to their consulting room, and McNamara announced, "We'll be happy to perform your tattoo removal, Miss Avalon. I do want to warn you first, though, that while we can excise the whole image in a single surgery, the operation will have to be performed under full anesthesia."

"Me or you?" Both surgeons burst into laughter, their patient joining them.

"I do appreciate your attitude. It'll help speed your recovery," McNamara said as he regained composure. Then back to business: "Skin grafting will be required, and there will be some scarring, which of course we'll try to minimize."

Karen smiled with relief. "I already wear a one-piece swimsuit. How soon?"

Troy glanced into the appointment book. "Not before next week, I'm afraid."

"Oh." Slight disappointment. "Then can it be Monday?"

The junior partner flashed his smile at her again. "See you next Monday at ten-thirty, Miss Avalon." To himself he thought, _And maybe before then_ ...

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. Martyr's Moon chapter 2

Martyr's Moon 

(Nip/Tuck / CSI:Miami)

by wordwolf

Disclaimers in Part I.

PART II.

It was midmorning Tuesday when Horatio Caine surveyed his assembled team as they gathered in the autopsy lab. The autopsy report was in his hand, the DNA results on the counter behind him, the body of Blair Blackwood on the examination table, and the electricity of the hunt in the air. "So what have we got?"

Dr. Alexx Woods answered first. "We've got the late Miss Blackwood, twenty-nine, star of the stained S&M screen. Cause of death: massive brain trauma consistent with falling thirteen stories to land on a poured concrete walk directly on her head. Death was instantaneous; she probably never felt a thing. The mule-stunning quantity of cocaine in her system probably helped, too."

"Let's see." The CSI team gathered alongside the examination table as Woods drew back the drape. Caine and the medical examiner kept their composure, but the three other criminalists didn't hold back their astonishment when they saw the huge black scorpion-shape, stretched, distorted, and age-blurred, defacing her body.

"Jesus, that's disgusting!" Calleigh Duquesne exclaimed.

Beside her, Eric Delko shook his head. "Man. No wonder they called her Mistress Scorpio."

"Without it, she might have found a more respectable line of work," Caine observed coolly.

"What are you getting at, Horatio?" asked Duquesne.

"That's a very old tattoo. And as you can tell from the all-over distortion and the deterioration of the line – once a very precise line, as you can see – it was applied some time fairly early in her childhood." Caine addressed the ME. "How would you date it, Doctor?"

"From the extent of growth indicated by the stretching, I'd estimate that she wasn't a day over six when this was inflicted on her." Woods almost growled. "And I'd like to get my hands on the degenerate who did it. And her parents. Probably the same."

"Actually, it wasn't, Alexx." Caine flourished another report. "Background on Blair, here. Our victim was an orphan. She spent her whole childhood in the system: eleven different foster homes, a couple of institutional stints. None of her foster parents or social workers, it seems, saw fit to record when, why, or how their young charge got a giant scorpion tattooed on her torso."

"God bless the system," muttered Woods.

Tim Speedle swallowed hard as he looked at the body, then moved the subject on. "What about the DNA results?"

"We've got them, but they're not as useful as we'd hoped," said Caine. "We swabbed everyone in the victim's condo, but found no matches with the semen in her vagina. Nothing on record for the DNA profile, either; this may be his first time."

"Or maybe he's just never been caught," Delko speculated darkly.

Caine nodded a grim, silent agreement, and went on. "The robe had two partial handprints on the back, both inconclusive. In short, ladies and gentlemen – " the CSI commander slapped the reports back onto the counter – "welcome to Square One."

Duquesne tossed her long hair with a fierce air of frustration. "Damn. I almost wish she'd been shot; then maybe I wouldn't feel so useless."

"No one on this team is ever useless," the ME reminded her gently.

"Absolutely," Caine agreed. "Calleigh, time for a bit of psychological ballistics. We're going to re-interview every one of those witnesses. The ones who can remember exactly what the victim said and what pose she struck seconds before her murder, but can look her killer in the face, let him walk away, and swear they can't even describe him."

XX

Christian Troy felt the usual touch of hunter's excitement as he approached the store. It hadn't been hard to find out where Karen Avalon worked: a look at her insurance forms for a daytime phone number, then a call to the public library, where they were more than willing to check their reverse directory for the address. The place turned out to be a big Barnes and Noble just a few blocks too far from the beach to be a fashionable location. And now, let the game begin...

He stepped in casually, feeling pleasantly like a spy as he slid his shades off, subtly checking out the faces as he wandered past the cashiers. Not there. Maybe she'd be at the center, at the customer service station. Or even in the children's department. He chuckled to himself at that thought: such a nice girl, a natural to work with the kids – until the boss found out about the scorpion. She probably never wore white blouses.

Not at the info desk, either. Troy tried not to look as if he were looking, pretending to check out a display of new religious books. Damn, these stores were BIG. Maybe she just wasn't working today, or was in the stock room...

On the PA system, Mozart's Third Horn Concerto cadenced to its end. What followed it caught his attention instantly: the sound of crisp footsteps, a car door opening and slamming, engine revving to life with the drum roll and bass line suddenly rumbling up to answer it, then the rest of the band – there was only one song that began that way.

"Aggravated, spare for days 

I troll downtown, the red lights blaze

Jump up, bubble up, what's in store?

Love is the drug and I need to score

Showing out, showing out, hit and run 

Boy meets girl where the beat goes on

Stitched up tight, can't break free

Love is the drug got a hook in me..."

"Dr. Troy!" exclaimed a voice that hadn't yet become familiar and dull. "Such a pleasure to see you here. May I help you?"

Troy turned toward the voice. "Miss Avalon!" He faked surprise very effectively, he thought. He pretended to notice the name tag pinned to the bodice of her sky-blue shirtwaist dress. "You work here?"

"I'm the first-shift manager. So what can I do for you?"

He peered at her questioningly, a suspicion rising. "You changed the music when you saw me, didn't you?"

"Was it that obvious?"

He chuckled. "Not really. How did you know I like Roxy Music?"

"Because you remind me of Bryan Ferry. And when a man reminds a woman of Bryan Ferry, the effect has to be at least partly intentional."

Now he laughed outright. This one was a bit more perceptive than most. But now it was his turn to charm her. "Maybe you can help me find something. You must have fifty thousand titles in here. Which one would be most worth my time?"

Not a second's hesitation. "The new Thwaite edition of the collected poems of Philip Larkin."

That certainly wasn't high on his list of expected answers. "Why that?"

"Because Larkin always told the truth. Would you like me to show you where it is, or would you like to be my six-hundredth customer to ask for 'The Da Vinci Code'?"

Troy found himself laughing yet again. "I definitely don't have time for that crap. Show me the Larkin."

The poetry section was small and select, the Larkin volume large and complete. "You don't read this cover to cover," Troy surmised.

"That's not the best way to go about it. Serendipity's better. Start anywhere."

So he did...

"TALKING IN BED

Talking in bed ought to be easiest,

Lying together there goes back so far,

An emblem of two people being honest.

Yet more and more time passes silently.

Outside, the wind's incomplete unrest

Builds and disperses clouds about the sky,

And dark towns heap up on the horizon.

None of this cares for us. Nothing shows why

At this unique distance from isolation 

It becomes still more difficult to find

Words at once true and kind,

Or not untrue and not unkind."

For a moment that could have lasted an age, Christian Troy had nothing to say. As soon as he came back to himself, he quipped, "Amazing. A modern poet that you can understand without taking a seminar." He hoisted the book. "I'll take it."

Karen nodded. "I call him 'the last poet,' although that really is unfair."

"To whom?"

"Well, Peter Viereck had flashes of real genius. Dana Gioia can move me. And Billy Collins is wonderful, although sometimes I think of him as just an entertainer ..."

He smiled wickedly. "Aren't women who read poetry supposed to love Sylvia Plath?"

"Oh, please. Neurotic, self-dramatizing, selfish, overrated. And that Neanderthal she married wasn't any better. Those two were made for each other – assuming God was punishing them."

THAT was bracing. "So you're not into the Top Forty. Robert Bly?"

"A hack."

"Maya Angelou?"

"Don't make me laugh." She shrugged. "Look, you want to find good poetry? Then always follow what I call the Three Laws of Poetics."

Troy couldn't believe this subject could be such fun. "This I have to hear."

Karen smiled back. "First Law: A poem may not flatter a human being, or through inaction, allow a human being to come to spiritual harm. Second Law: A poem must fulfill needs brought to it by human beings except where such fufillment would conflict with the First Law. Third Law: A poem must protect its own integrity as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law." Now Troy laughed, and Karen beamed with pleasure.

"So that's what you do after hours? Poetry and Eighties music?"

"What do YOU do after hours?"

His gut clenched. Suddenly he realized that he didn't want this woman to know, not now, maybe not ever. "Well... I'm a surgeon, there's not much time after my hours."

She crossed her arms and gave him a look, sharp but without hostility. "So what is a busy surgeon doing hanging out in a bookshop on a Tuesday afternoon?"

"Chatting up a charming young lady between surgical procedures. And while she and I are on the subject of after hours, what would she like to do tonight?"

She smiled, but kept her arms crossed. "I'm sorry, Dr. Troy, but this is just too short a notice for me. Maybe..." Suddenly she brightened. "Tell you what: Tell me where to pick YOU up tomorrow at seven, and you can see what I do after hours."

Now they were getting somewhere. "It's a date. Come to my office; you know where it is."

"Thank you. Make sure to wear sneakers, and something loose and comfortable, in case you want to join in."

That was almost too tantalizing to think about... As he returned to the practice, bearing his purchase through the sun-washed streets, everything seemed to Christian Troy to be promising delicious secrets. It wasn't until he was scrubbing for his next operation that he realized, with a touch of trepidation, that not for a minute had he been in full control of the encounter.

TO BE CONTINUED


	3. Martyr's Moon chapter 3

Martyr's Moon 

(Nip/Tuck / CSI:Miami)

by wordwolf

Disclaimers in Part I.

PART III.

When he saw his partner step out of his office, Armani and Guccis exchanged for t-shirt, sweatpants, and sneakers, Sean McNamara's eyebrows rose. "I've never seen you leave the office dressed like that, Christian."

"By special request only, Sean," Troy replied with a smirk. "A young lady's asked me out ... and specified sneakers and loose clothes. Just in case I want to join in."

McNamara smirked back. "She's probably taking you to a gym." Troy glared briefly at him and didn't dignify the comment with a reply.

XX

A couple of minutes before seven, Karen Avalon pulled up to the curb in ... Troy felt revolted. A Hyundai. A six-year-old Hyundai. He wondered how he would steel his stomach to get into such a vehicle, and toyed with the idea of asking her to switch cars and let him drive. But he didn't know where they were going, and it occurred to him that the woman might be insulted, so he gritted his teeth and got into the nasty thing. He even managed a smile – for her, of course, not the worthless car. She was dressed as he was, in sweatpants and a suitably opaque t-shirt, and a long white canvas bag was lying across the back seat. Of course he wondered for a tempting moment what was in it.

They made a little small talk for the brief drive, until pulling up in front of ... a gym. Karen looked at him with concern in her face. "Is something wrong, Dr. Troy?"

"No – no, nothing," he replied, a little too airily. "But please, call me Christian. I'll be Dr. Troy when I operate on you."

"Which cannot be a moment too soon for me. Really, Doct – Christian, you have no idea how grateful I am to you and Dr. McNamara." She hauled the bag out of the car, and he gallantly stepped up and took it from her.

As they entered the gym, there were some stares for the handsome newcomer with Karen Avalon, but he repaid those stares with his own. For a flash he wondered what he'd gotten himself into. Who _were_ these people? Why were they wearing huge mesh helmets that made their faces look like giant flies' eyes? What was with the white padded tunics and vests that made the women's chests almost indistinguishable from the mens'? And all of them holding – were those _swords_? Not exactly. Suddenly Troy realized what was going on, and felt like a prize fool for a moment. "So you fence."

"I do," Karen replied with a grin, unzipping her equipment bag. "And this is my night to teach the beginners' foil class. I was hoping you'd like to try."

"Mmm... maybe I'll just watch." He sounded dubious, and instantly regretted his tone when he saw the shadow of disappointment on her face.

As she closed the Velcro seal on her protective tunic and took up her mask, gauntlet, and foil, she said quietly to him, "I hope this won't be a waste of your evening. My advice: watching beginners drill is boring. You should watch Maestro Cosimo work the advanced sabre group." He followed her slightly envious gaze across the gym, seeing a tall, spare, elderly man who seemed to be made of rope and wire under his skin, and the strapping younger ones who were stretching and warming up around him. Karen sighed. "One of life's injustices is that there is no women's sabre at this club!"

Troy framed a reply, but quickly decided that it was a little too suggestive. Or a lot too suggestive. He let it pass, and just watched as his escort went through her warm-up stretches – very fetchingly, he thought – and resolved at least to try to get something out of this.

And as it turned out, he did. Troy would have felt silly participating at this first visit, but was enchanted as he watched. As a teacher Karen was patient and precise; sparring on the _piste_, she was quick, bold, and graceful. And as she had predicted, it was thrilling to watch the Maestro and his sabre team in action. It all looked like something he might want to try sometime; in terms of romance and challenge, it certainly beat the treadmill all to hell. Maybe he could recommend this to Sean too; here was an activity that could help him with his machismo issues without any real danger. Yes, this definitely would not be a waste of his evening.

It was close to ten when the fencing club broke up for the night. "Shall I take you home, Christian?" Karen offered as she packed up her gear.

"Back to my office would be better. I need to get my car." He smiled as he took the loaded equipment bag from her. "Thanks for bringing me."

The hope in her voice sounded almost sad to him. "You weren't bored?"

"Not at all." He widened the smile. "But the night's not over yet. I'd like to see your moves in a different sort of setting."

"Excuse me?"

Oops. He'd been a little too fast. Fortunately, she seemed bewildered, not insulted. "I mean, do you dance?"

Good save. She softened and smiled. "Not very well, I'm afraid. And especially not tonight; I'm exhausted."

"That's understandable. Think you'll be rested up by tomorrow night?"

"I most certainly will. Thank you, Christian; I only hope I won't embarrass you."

"Not a chance. I know a place frequented by certain malpractice attorneys with delusions of cool; I want to show them and their skanky mistresses who is seeing the most beautiful swordswoman in south Florida."

Karen grinned. "Then I hope that couple shows up so I can see her too, maybe toss a gauntlet."

Troy laughed delightedly. The girl really did know how to fence.

Getting into Karen's Korean turd on wheels was easier the second time. Troy considered her relaxed body language and her apparent eagerness to see him again on his terms. This might be a safe time to bring up a personal issue. "Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did. Would you like to do it again?"

If he'd been drinking anything, it would have been all over the car. "Really, Karen, you have GOT to stop making me laugh!"

"Sorry, I can't resist. You have such an appealing laugh; I love to hear it."

That was sweet. "Thank you. I hope you don't mind my asking: who gave you that tattoo? You were obviously very young at the time. I guess the most direct way to phrase it is: what was up with your parents?"

"I never knew them." She didn't look at him.

"Adopted?" His heart sped up a little.

"Not even that. Foster homes, group homes, eighteen years a ward of the state. Wasn't easy. I hid in books a lot." An edge came into her voice. "I can't remember the day I was tattooed, or who did it. Not a thing. But I do remember getting up the next day and going downstairs ... and overhearing my foster parents discussing moving up to Atlanta and buying a house. Two days later I was back in the group home." Her hands tightened on the wheel. "No doubt they bought that house in Atlanta."

Troy was grasping for the right words when they pulled up in front of the practice; it wouldn't do to reveal his own secret and lay himself open. Then he had something. "Maybe tomorrow night I can help you forget for a little while." His hand covered hers for a moment, his lips brushed her face, and he departed into the night.

XX

"Damn," breathed CSI Eric Delko. "How the hell could there be two of them?"

The circumstances and method of this murder were entirely different, but the scorpion mark defacing the victim's body was horribly familiar. It was, in fact, the first thing the criminalists noticed; with the victim utterly naked to the morning light, spread-eagle across her own bed and bound hand and foot to the corners, there was nothing to hide it. The second thing they noticed was the deep stab wound directly to the heart, cutting into the mattress beneath. Beside the satin-sheeted, blood-drenched bed, Calleigh Duquesne sighed and brought up the camera. Today would be a long one.

As his investigators went through their expert paces, Horatio Caine turned his attention to the heavy, silent man hunched in the delicate chair at the victim's dressing table. "Mr. Ross? I know this is hard for you, but we have to ask some questions."

He looked up with dry eyes. "You know, I had a feeling something like this was going to happen someday... First I've got one for you. She didn't suffer, did she?"

"We'll have to wait for the medical examiner's report before we know for sure. But as far as I can judge, I would say that she died instantly." The size and location of the wound told him so. Looking more deeply, the lack of any bruising at the wrists and ankles, lightly bound with silk scarves, showed there had been no struggle. The late Vanessa Piggott-Ross had submitted peacefully to her own brutal murder.

"That helps," muttered her husband. He gazed resignedly at the long, lean body, porcelain-pale where not bloody, curly red hair spread across satin pillows, eyes closed as if only in sleep. "She liked the dangerous type. Stupid, but I put up with it."

"Why did you put up with it, Mr. Ross?" asked Caine gently.

"Because that's what she wanted. It was worth it to both of us. She put up with what I wanted, too." He met Caine's eyes, truculent, defensive. "You're not here to judge us. Vanessa and I had a very open, very happy marriage."

"Where were you last night?" This question was just as gentle as the others.

"With my mistress. We were out dancing until about eleven; then we went back to her apartment. Plenty of witnesses saw us."

"You understand that we have to check out your story."

"Of course you do. Like I said, you're here to find her killer, not to judge us."

"Did your wife have any enemies, Mr. Ross? Anyone who might nurse a grudge? A stalker?"

"Not that I was aware of. But I didn't know her lovers, just as she didn't know mine. We respected each other's privacy."

"Of course." Caine carefully kept the disappointment from showing. Ross had just said what no cop wants to hear.

"H? Here's something you should see." Delko approached; there was a small framed photograph in his latex-gloved hand. Caine peered at the image of a giggling little girl under red curls, in the arms of a young man sporting fancy shades and a wide white grin. With one arm he supported her, with the other he was holding up her blouse, showing the black scorpion, crisp and new in all its hideousness.

"Mr. Ross, I assume this is your wife as a child. Do you know the man?"

"I never met him. That's Vanessa's godfather. They were very close."

"And you never met him?"

"I already told you, we respected each other's privacy." He gazed fondly at the picture. "Damn, she was so beautiful. And the scorpion just made it more special..."

"With your permission, Mr. Ross, we'd like to borrow this picture and copy it."

"Take anything you want." He waved an arm, heavily and dully, indicating the room. "All her secrets are safe now. For good."

XX

Leaning on the boardwalk rail, Christian Troy enjoyed a long, sensuous gaze along the beach. Pretty girls everywhere. There was no more pleasant way to spend one's lunch hour than taking in the sweet sight of Miami's principal natural resources. This day especially, it stimulated thoughts of the night ahead.

Tonight would likely be the night. He smiled to himself, shook his head. The seduction of Karen Avalon was taking much longer than he'd anticipated, but to his own amused surprise, he didn't mind. Ferociously willing women were thick on the ground; he was enjoying the challenge of not scaring off an old-fashioned girl. And once they finally got around to the main event, he was going to give her the time of her life. After that, who knew? At present, they were having more modest fun together. Sure, she'd said she wasn't much of a dancer, but Troy knew that no one who moved like that on the fencing-strip could be clumsy on the dance floor. Even if she was unpracticed, he had more than enough cool for both of them.

"Well, well. Dr. Christian Troy."

The voice was frosty and mocking, and Troy was already annoyed as he turned to it. "Do I know you?" The man – little more than a boy, really – was tall and very slender, blond as a wheatfield, and had the kind of perfect smile that left most women charmed, most men envious, and Christian Troy irritated when it interrupted his peace.

"James Pierce." He extended a hand and just about seized Troy's, which had not been offered. "You won't remember me, but don't worry. Soon enough, the whole damned species will know that name. And fear it." The perfect smile flashed, and the hand squeezed.

Troy's eyes widened. He'd never felt such a grip in his life; another flex, and half the bones in his hand would be crushed. The other noted the touch of panic in the surgeon's face, and dropped his hand with an air of triumph. "Sorry. Mustn't hurt the expensively trained hands, now."

"Who the hell are you?" Troy wished almost desperately that he could see through Pierce's shades into the eyes beneath. No doubt they mocked him.

"Told you already. You're not supposed to forget until I leave." The stranger swung himself up to the boardwalk rail next to Troy and looked out over the beach. His smile spoke of ownership. "What a bumper crop of ripe women. Special, aren't they? Set apart. Hey, Christian, did you know that was the original meaning of 'holy'? But if you set them even farther apart – beyond the pale – they become unholy."

Troy looked at him with loathing and bewilderment, underlaid with just a touch of fear. "What the hell are you getting at, and what does it have to do with me?"

"Oh, nothing. Nothing at all having to do with _you_. It's only for those who seek the secrets, who understand power, where it is and how to take it." He turned again to Troy, looked him up and down as if choosing lots at an auction, then gazed across the beach again. "Did you know power is fluid? Like the sea. Water ... blood ... sperm. Flowing, leaking, trickling, pounding. Waiting for the ones with the knowledge and the patience. Waiting for the right time for the secret of remaking all things. Waiting for the new moon to go blue, then black. Dark, and dark again."

_Who IS this freak?_ Troy felt his guts twisting. More than anything, he wanted to walk quickly away, but his feet weren't obeying. Something was making him stay and listen to the bizarre monologue.

"Long ago and far away, they knew about the power in the blood and the sperm, how to set the offerings apart, how to wait. Do you know the _asvamedha_?" Troy could only shake his head, a slow, stunned motion. The other grinned coldly and went on. "The horse sacrifice. It could change a king of men into a king of gods – IF done right. The perfect horse went free for a year, and the slightest human touch would ruin it. It had to be brought to the sacred ground without a hand laid on it. Then the sword would fall, and the blood would flow ... The queen would be brought to the horse, lie beside it, lie with it and take it inside her – "

"Why are you telling me this crap?!"

Pierce made an icy, crackling sound that Troy belatedly realized was laughter. "You're right, Christian. You'll never understand. I should just go ahead and thank you."

"What the hell for?"

Another cold chuckle. "You've borrowed something that belongs to me, but you're being just a bit too gentle with it. Where's that wild goat who balls up women like tissues and tosses them in the trash?" Troy felt the heat rising to his face, but could not say a word. "Come on, you old dog, quit trying to learn new tricks! Go ahead, hurry up and squeeze her dry. All I want is the husk, and I need it by Friday night."

Suddenly Troy realized what the other was referring to. Through his teeth he growled, "I don't give a damn who or what you are, but you're going to leave her – and me – alone. Do you understand me? Stay away from us!"

"Oh, Christian. You're so cute when you get mad!" Pierce grinned like a scimitar, raised his hand and patted the surgeon's cheek, turned and sauntered off along the boardwalk. Behind him he left Troy, shaking with anger and a fear he would never admit.

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. Martyr's Moon chapter 4

Martyr's Moon 

(Nip/Tuck / CSI:Miami)

by wordwolf

Disclaimers in Part I.

PART IV.

"Well, don't you look like the cat that ate the canary," McNamara observed as his partner entered the next morning. A beat later, he gave his own wry smile. "That didn't come out right, did it?"

"It's not what you think, Sean," Troy answered lightly. "It's better. I checked my e-mail this morning, and found this. Had to print it out so you could see ... "

McNamara took the page.

"Dear Christian, thank you for the most wonderful evening I can remember. I wanted you to start your day with something I was sure you didn't have, and that could never be taken away. This is by Denis Johnson, from me:

Loving you is every bit as fine 

as coming over a hill into the sun

at ninety miles an hour darling when

it's dawn and you can hear the stars unlocking

themselves from the designs of God beneath

the disintegrating orchestra of my black

Chevrolet. The radio clings to an un-

identified station – somewhere a tango suffers,

and the dance floor burns around two lovers

whom nothing can touch – no, not even death!

Oh! The acceleration with which my heart does proceed,

reaching like stars almost but never quite

of light the speed of light the speed of light."

He smiled and handed the page back to his partner. "Christian, you've never had one like this before." His friend's answering smile was innocent as a child's, and McNamara felt an unaccustomed suspicion. "Wait a minute ... you haven't actually HAD her yet, have you?" When the other turned away without answering, the senior surgeon crowed, "Well, I'll be damned. Christian Troy is actually getting into a relationship! Hell freezes over; film at eleven! "

"Can it, Sean," Troy snapped. "I took her dancing last night, she took me fencing the night before."

"FENCING? So you like chicks with swords. Does Liz know about this?"

Troy whipped back around to him, growling, "If you don't wipe that smirk off your face, I'm going to wipe it off for you, and if you breathe a word of this to Liz you will need extensive facial reconstruction. Do I make myself clear?"

McNamara was taken aback. "I was only teasing, Christian; no need to take it so seriously." He tried to smile again. "She must be a nice girl."

That was when their nurse-receptionist turned up at the doorway of the break room. "Doctors, the police are here."

The two surgeons looked at each other in mutual astonishment. _What now?_ said both men's eyes.

XX

He was waiting for them in the consulting room. Red hair, hooded eyes, extended hand. "Dr. Troy, Dr. McNamara?" They nodded guardedly; each accepted the handshake in turn. "Lieutenant Horatio Caine, Miami-Dade PD Crime Scene Investigation." He showed the badge. "I have a few questions for you."

They all sat down, the two surgeons still guarded, trying to keep the advantage of home ground. "So how can we help you, Lieutenant?" McNamara began coolly.

"You might have heard about two recent homicides, Sunday night and Wednesday night."

"No, as a matter of fact, we haven't." If McNamara had been cool, Troy was utterly freezing. "Following that sort of thing is your job; we have other professional concerns."

Caine ignored the thrust. "There was a connection between the two victims – "

"Lt. Caine, this is a very busy practice," Troy persisted. "Could you please come to the point about what this has to do with us?"

The hooded eyes narrowed. "Fair enough, Dr. Troy. Has anyone come to you recently requesting removal of a tattoo? A tattoo of a large black scorpion?"

The surgeons exchanged a glance. "As a matter of fact, we have been consulted on that matter," McNamara answered carefully. "But in keeping with doctor-patient confidentiality, we're under no obligation to reveal anything else."

"Even if you could save your patient's life?" Caine noted their consternation with secret satisfaction as he brought out a couple of autopsy photographs and slid them across the desk. "The two victims. Do the tattoos look familiar?"

"Jesus." Troy picked up and stared at the pictures, then passed them to his partner. "Identical."

"As you probably have figured out by now," said Caine with a note of triumph, "anyone else with this mark has a chance of being the next victim. Including your patient. I have investigators checking with every plastic surgeon, dermatologist, and tattoo parlor in Dade County looking for people with it. Particularly young women."

"That's our patient," McNamara affirmed. "What do you suggest we do?"

"Tell me everything you know," replied Caine crisply. "We're trying to assemble a profile of the victims: age, background, career, whatever we can."

"Forgive my ignorance of police procedure." Troy couldn't entirely control his tone. "But wouldn't it be a bit more useful to assemble a profile of the killer?"

As Troy couldn't keep from sounding snide, Caine couldn't keep from sounding defensive. "If we had something – anything – to go on, Dr. Troy, we would. The semen found in both victims matched exactly, but the DNA is not on record. At the moment, this is our only lead." He reached into his pocket for another picture. "This is a copy of a photo we found at the scene of the second killing, in the victim's bedroom."

McNamara looked first, shook his head. "Sorry."

But Troy's eyes widened when he took it. "That's him!"

"Who, Christian?" McNamara beat Caine to the question.

"The weirdo from yesterday! I told you about him, Sean: the guy who cornered me at the boardwalk rail, going on about fluids and power and the moon and sick ancient rituals involving screwing a dead horse." He looked up from the picture to Caine. "Screwing a dead horse. I shit you not, Lieutenant."

Caine didn't blink. "Oh, I believe you, Doctor. But I'm a bit more interested in what he had to say about the moon."

"Incoherent nonsense. I had no idea what he was getting at. Something about the new moon going blue, then black. Dark, and dark again."

"Blue moon..." Beside him McNamara was considering out loud. "The second full moon in a month. Then it must be possible sometimes to have the new moon – the dark of the moon – twice in a month, right?"

The criminalist turned his attention to the surgeon. "Thank you, Dr. McNamara. If you'll excuse me a minute, I'm going to have that looked into right now." Out came his cell phone. "Speed? Yes. Listen, get your hands on an almanac or call the University observatory, whichever's faster. I need to know the next time we're due for the second new moon in one calendar month. No, I don't mean a full moon; I mean the dark of the moon. Second in one month." Snapping shut the phone, Caine looked at the senior surgeon differently. "I really am grateful for that insight." McNamara looked both pleased and a touch astonished, as if not believing it could have been his. "What else did he say that could tell us anything, Dr. Troy?"

"Who knows what part of his mystic bullshit meant anything? Fluids – sperm and blood, and how power flows in them. Something about secrets, and remaking everything. The dead horse business – I think that he meant it as some kind of example." His brow knit and voice sharpened. "I really wasn't following too closely until he told me to go ahead and squeeze her dry by Friday night, and then she'd be ready for _him_ to use! I should've hit the bastard."

Caine took it in. "I assume this woman he mentioned is your tattoo removal patient?" When Troy nodded, he asked, "Is it your custom to see your patients, shall we say, outside a professional context, Dr. Troy?"

"Is that any business of yours, Lt. Caine?"

"Not yet," Caine conceded. "Is there anything else you can remember?"

Troy shrugged. "I told you I wasn't listening too hard. He even introduced himself, and I can't remember the name. Christ, I couldn't even remember what he looked like until I saw this picture."

That was when Caine's cool blue eyes took on a gleam. "Ah, yes, this picture. You're sure it's the man who spoke to you?"

"Unless he has a mysterious identical twin."

Caine picked it up, held it up, displaying the image of a slender, handsome blond man in jeans, polo shirt, and expensive shades, holding up a curly-haired little girl. The man was grinning as he raised the child's blouse to display the scorpion image crawling on her. "Dr. Troy, the girl in this picture is Vanessa Pigott-Ross at the age of five."

"Poor little thing. And your point is?"

"The original was found on her bureau. In the bedroom where she was murdered Wednesday night." Then Caine dropped his depth-charge. "Gentlemen, Vanessa Pigott-Ross was twenty-nine at the time of her death. This image is over two decades old."

XX

"One of these days, Jules," McNamara grunted to his wife as he arrived home, "I'm going to have a normal week at work. People who just need some routine cosmetic or reconstructive work done. Who don't need years of therapy, prison time, or curses removed from their families."

"Then you probably should have opted for dermatology rather than plastic surgery, Sean," she replied with a smile and a light kiss.

"With dermatology, I could still have ended up with this patient," he confessed. "She needs the world's ugliest tattoo removed. You can imagine what we thought when a detective showed up today to tell us that there were two other women in town with the exact same tattoo. Both were murdered this week."

"Oh, my God." Julia had to sit down. "What are you going to do?"

He shrugged. "We gave him her contact information. Now it's the cops' job. I'm sure it won't be made any easier by the fact that Christian is seeing her."

That seemed to amuse her and lighten the atmosphere. "I wouldn't be concerned about that. He won't be seeing her for long."

"Don't be so sure." He swung by the refrigerator, poured orange juice, and came to join her at the table. "They seem to be actually dating. He hasn't even slept with her yet." Another shrug. "Who knows, this might turn into a real relationship."

Julia snorted. "I think we can agree to believe that when we see it."

He grinned and was about to reply when they heard small feet and an equally small voice at the entrance to the kitchen. "Daddy? You're home. The man asked me to give you this when you got home."

McNamara turned to his daughter. "What man, Annie?"

"He came to school at recess."

"And they let him on the grounds?" He and Julia exchanged a look, and now it was the little girl's turn to shrug. "What did he look like, Annie?"

Her brow twisted in thought, then she had to shrug again. "I don't remember, Daddy. Anyway, I'm supposed to give you this." She presented a sealed letter-size envelope of black paper. Already feeling cold and a little queasy, McNamara took it as if he expected it to sting him. Watched fearfully by Julia, he tore it open, extracted a black letter written in white ink.

"I hope this note finds you and your family well, Dr. McNamara. This is because you and they won't be as well if you don't keep your hands off my property. To be direct, as I'm sure you must want me to be, DON'T TOUCH THE SCORPION. Do NOT touch it. Let me assure you that I am not bullshitting you. Fuck with what's mine, and I will, I promise, fuck with what's yours."

Unsigned. "Dear God," he gasped.

"Sean?" Julia saw him go pale; she reached for the letter. "Sean, let me see it!"

He pulled the black sheet back. "Please, Julia, not yet. There's someone else who should see it first. Please!" He fairly leaped to his feet and went to the telephone, fishing in his pocket until he found a certain business card. "Lt. Caine? This is Dr. Sean McNamara. Something just happened you need to know ..."

TO BE CONTINUED


	5. Martyr's Moon chapter 5

Martyr's Moon 

(Nip/Tuck / CSI:Miami)

by wordwolf

Disclaimers in Part I.

PART V.

The air in the DNA lab had seemed to thicken and chill as they went over the results yet again – accurate, but useless for identification, at least at present. Tim Speedle sounded irritated, as if expecting better. "Ordinarily, when we have this much evidence, it all starts to come together," he observed. "But what do we have here?"

"All sorts of good, solid stuff, that's what." Calleigh Duquesne almost moaned. "It's just that all together, it doesn't make sense."

Eric Delko, not to be outdone, started counting down the elements on one hand. "We've got an exact DNA match on the semen in the victims – but nothing on record. We've got amazing parallels on the profiles of both of them and on the next likely target – but with one glaring difference. We've got a picture ID'ed as being of the perp – but it's twenty-four years old, and he hasn't changed a bit. Hell, we've even got a likely timetable, but don't know what kind of trap to lay for this nut!"

"That last is not going to be a problem," said Horatio Caine with his usual quiet assurance. "I personally will be apprising this Karen Avalon of her situation. Dr. Troy gave us solid evidence that the perp has plans for Friday, which is to say, tonight."

"Not to mention," Speedle cut in, confidence returning, "that tonight the moon will be dark – for the second time this month."

"That's right, Speed," Caine continued, pleased. "There's no doubt as to when he'll make his move. We're going to surround her location with unmarked surveillance, and no one will be able to get in or out without us being able to practically write his biography. If, or rather, when he shows up, no disguise is going to protect him."

"But speaking of writing biographies, H," Delko continued, "I don't like the way this woman fits in. Sure, she's got the scorpion, but that's the only common factor."

"Not so," Duquesne protested. "Don't forget, all three of them grew up in the foster care system."

Delko granted the error. "You're right; I'd forgotten that. But still. Blair was an S&M porn star, Vanessa a rich sleazeball's nymphomaniac trophy wife – "

"Now then, Eric," Caine interrupted with a sly smile, "remember what Scott Ross said. We weren't there to judge them."

"Yeah, well, you try and avoid it," replied Delko sourly. "But this third one's practically Victorian!"

"It's those quiet ones you have to watch out for!" Speedle riposted.

Caine was shaking his head, but gently. "Some of us would like the victims' personal lives to be a factor; it would be emotionally satisfying, in a self-righteous way," he said in a fatherly voice; Delko reddened. "But what we really need to make the connection is the tattoo. We only found one more woman with it."

"Which doesn't mean there aren't others," Delko argued, "just that this one was trying to get rid of hers. Who knows how many others are happy with theirs?" No one wanted to answer that; it promised to turn their task from the Herculean to the Sisyphean.

"We can only go with what we know, Eric," Duquesne filled in for all of them. "But what is really bothering me is that ID on our perp."

"It's good, Calleigh," Speedle declared. "When we re-interviewed them, everyone who'd been at Blair Blackwood's condo Sunday night made the guy in the picture as having been there, and six of them made him as the pusher."

"But we've got no name, and the picture is from 1980!" she protested.

"Maybe he had a son," Delko offered.

"Maybe he had a clone," Speedle smirked.

That was when Caine's cell phone squealed for attention. "Caine. Yes, Dr. McNamara ... " The team went silent as their commander listened. "I see. Yes. I'll have an investigator out to you immediately to pick up that letter. Meanwhile, gather your family. It'd be best if you all stayed in tonight. Now don't worry, Doctor; I'll have a watch put on your house tonight, and as long as it takes until we get this guy."

XX

Karen Avalon peered through the peephole on her apartment door, not recognizing the tall man with the red hair and melancholy face, and did not move to unlock and open the door until he showed her the badge. "Miss Avalon? May I come in?"

Apprehensive, she opened to him. "Yes, sir?"

He smiled down at her, his most reassuring and avuncular smile. "Thank you. I'm Lt. Horatio Caine. I have some news for you that you might find distressing."

"Oh. Then we should both be sitting down. Won't you come in?"

The CSI commander noted in passing that the place was small, but tidy as a printed page. He further noted that his hostess was wearing a bathrobe, with her hair wrapped in a towel. She noticed him looking, turned pink, and explained, "You'll have to excuse my appearance, Lieutenant; I was getting ready to go out."

"With that formidable Dr. Troy?" he asked with a twinkle; she smiled shyly and averted her eyes. "That's part of what I came here to tell you, Miss Avalon," he continued. "It would be in your best interest to stay home tonight."

She motioned him to the couch, took a chair for herself. "Really? Why?"

Briefly, efficiently, and he hoped not too alarmingly, he explained about the murders and the scorpion. "We do have reason to believe he will make an attempt on you tonight." As her eyes widened, he hastened to assure her, "You'll be as safe as Miami-Dade PD can make anyone. Already unmarked vehicles and plainclothes officers are moving into position around this entire block. We'll have officers in the building lobby as well. Every one knows exactly what the suspect looks like, and will be ready for him."

"Are you going to station an officer in here? With me?" She looked ambivalent about that possibility.

"That won't be necessary. We intend to nail the bastard before he can get anywhere near you."

"I'm sure you can imagine how sweet that sounds to my ears, Lieutenant."

He gave her the avuncular smile again. "I appreciate that, Miss Avalon. So you'll have to change your plans for tonight, but otherwise, feel free to do as you please. Don't worry about a thing; we're on top of it."

Something disquieting occurred to her, and it showed in her face. "But what if he identifies you before you identify him?"

"In that case, he's likely to spook, then make another attempt later. We will continue to watch you, but we can't very well demand that you stay home indefinitely. This should help." He reached into his pocket and came up with a tiny black square. "Now I can only offer this to you, Miss Avalon; I can't compel you to take it. But I do recommend it strongly."

She peered at the fragment. "What is it?"

"A tracer chip. It will compromise your privacy, but only temporarily, and for your own protection. If you decide to take it, we ask that you keep it on your person whenever you leave home. It'll enable us to track you in case of trouble. Just until we catch him."

"I'll take it. Thank you."

"I hope that I'll be able to take it back and report his arrest to you tomorrow morning. In the meantime, take care, Miss Avalon, and thank you for your cooperation."

"It's I who should thank you, Lt. Caine." He smiled at her once more, rose and let her show him out, feeling the satisfaction of being in time – too rare an occurrence in his line of work.

Karen shut and locked the door behind her unexpected visitor, and went straight to the telephone to dial a certain cell number. "Christian? It's Karen ... Please forgive me, Christian, but I must break our date for tonight. I've had a visit from the police ... Let's just say they recommend that I stay in for now. I promise that I'll make it up to you once they catch whomever they're looking for ... Not much. I thought I'd just turn on the CD player, violate the civil rights of a chicken, and re-read 'Paterson'... Thank you for being so understanding, Christian!"

XX

It was not thirty minutes later when Karen's doorbell rang, and there was Troy, a savory-smelling takeout bag in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other. "Oh! Christian, this is unexpected!" A wide grin spread over her face to reflect his. "And very welcome."

"Don't try to bul – snow me," he replied as he entered. "You knew I was coming!"

"Why do you say that?" Her bewilderment was genuine.

"You put on Roxy." He cocked his head to indicate the music.

"To remind me of you," she parried. "I was expecting to miss you tonight." She gestured at her shorts and oversize t-shirt. "As you can see, I didn't dress for company."

"Okay, you win. I took you by surprise and swept you off your feet!"

"Last Tuesday, to be precise. Here, I'll take those to the kitchen." She accepted the bag and bottle from him. "Luckily, I haven't started cooking anything yet. Be right back; please, make yourself at home."

She returned a few seconds later, to find him still standing in her living room, the CD moving on to its next cut. The lush arrangement rose, swung softly around them:

Now the party's over; I'm so tired

Then I see you coming out of nowhere

Much communication in a motion

Without conversation or a notion

Avalon ...

Troy's eyes went to Karen's, blue gaze merging into dark. He approached; she felt his arms close around her, drawing her into the rhythm, gently leading her into the dance as she surrendered to and returned the embrace.

When the samba takes you out of nowhere

And the background's fading out of focus

Yes, the picture's changing every moment

And your destination, you don't know it

Avalon ...

Her eyes had drifted shut as she softened and held him; when she opened them again, he was looking deep into them as if seeing a vision. "This must be our song," he said softly.

"I've waited years for someone to share it," she answered, more softly.

There was no more to be said. His lips descended to meet hers.

In the bedroom, she gave herself to him with the trust and generosity of a child, and he responded with care and tenderness. No, she was not a virgin, but had all the innocence and wonder of one without the fear. As for him, there had been so much sex, but it had been so very long since he'd made love to a woman.

XX

Karen slowly roused to the feel of the hand on her shoulder, shaking gently at first, then more insistently. For a moment she was annoyed; then the thought dawned that he wanted her for something, anything, and whatever it was, it would be her pleasure to give. Her lips smiled before her eyes opened.

Now she rubbed those eyes, confused. Still dark? She'd expected the warm light of tropical dawn. Why would he wake her in the dead of night ... Suddenly she winced against the flash as the lamp on the far side of the bed snapped on.

Squinting, Karen sat up, turned toward the light – and froze. He was sitting comfortably on the other half of her bed, fully dressed in tight black jeans and long-sleeved black shirt, looking half Troy's age and two-thirds his weight. His hair was a golden wave, his eyes chips of emerald, his smile an icicle. In one hand he gripped the hilt of a gleaming steel sword.

Thought, heart, breath itself all seemed to stop in an instant of terror. His smile widened, sharpened as his eyes raked her up and down. The sword, needle-pointed, razor-edged, swung toward her; the blade lay flat against her cheek; she dared not even tremble. "Good evening, Karen," he breathed softly. "It's been so many years ..."

TO BE CONTINUED


	6. Martyr's Moon chapter 6

Martyr's Moon 

(Nip/Tuck / CSI:Miami)

by wordwolf

Disclaimers in Part I.

PART VI.

Karen tried to back slowly away, but he moved with her, keeping the blade against her face. "Don't you have anything to ask me, my dear? I should think you'd be full of questions. Interesting questions."

Near choking, Karen forced herself to speak, barely able to endure the feel of the steel moving with her cheek. "What have you done with Christian?"

His eyebrows went up with amusement. "Really. Why that first? There's so much else I'd want to know in your position. Like: How did he get past the cops? Who is he? – because I'm sure that twenty-three years is too long for the memory to come back. Or even: What's with the sword? That's a good one. There IS one question I'm sure you don't need to ask, though: What does he want with me? That you already know, right?"

She tried to squeeze back the tears, and failed. "Please ... where is Christian?"

"Don't worry. I haven't killed him. Yet. Get up, and I'll take you to him. Move it; the moon is dark for the second time, the night's no longer young, and I've waited and worked too long to miss this chance." Slowly he withdrew his sword. "Come quietly, and I won't have to hurt either of you."

Resigned, Karen started to gather the blanket around herself and slide off her bed. Suddenly the sword flashed at her, hooking the bedclothes on its point and ripping them away, showing her bare. "Oh, no! I won't have you covering up part of my best work!" His sharp green gaze focused on the scorpion mark.

"Please," she begged, "let me dress."

"Why? No one's going to see you. Ever again." He chuckled. "But you won't be forgotten, Karen. Soon the whole world will know that James Pierce killed you, and how, and why. And they'll curse you for living long enough for it to happen."

He was interrupted by an electronic peal. A glance revealed that it was coming from the neatly folded pile of Troy's clothes lying beside the bed. "Well, what have we here?" Pierce smirked, turning to the sound. "How rude to call so late. And especially when Dr. Troy is supposed to be doing what he does best!" He waited out five rings, then nodded, satisfied, when the cellphone went silent again, and turned back to her. "All done. Time to go, my dear."

Pierce swung the sword-point toward the doorway, then postioned himself behind her. Karen took a first step as if she had never walked before, then another, steadily moving forward under his gaze. Her arms were locked across her breasts, and her hands clenched into fists to hide their trembling – and the tiny black item she had snatched off her bedside table when Pierce had looked away.

Suddenly there was another, louder ring: Karen's bedside telephone. "Shit! No more of this!" Pierce snarled. He snatched up the phone, then slammed it down hard enough to crack both cradle and receiver. "Enough. We're getting out of here."

XX

Sean McNamara could not sleep. Not that he could figure out why; with the police practically surrounding his house, there was nothing to fear. He'd calmed Julia more easily than he'd expected to, and a very nice evening followed; Julia had made an exceptional dinner, they watched the DVD of that charming new version of "The Music Man," and everyone turned in early, at peace and satisfied. So why was he still tossing and turning forty-five minutes later? There just was no way to shake the feeling that something, somewhere, was wrong.

McNamara got up, wandered into his living room. Why not channel-surf for a while? Maybe F/X was showing one of its outrageous dramas. Then it occurred to him: Maybe it wasn't a good idea to ignore this. He thought of that patient, Karen Avalon – sweet girl, if a little odd. She said she paid attention to her instincts; maybe he should listen to his.

The thought of Karen Avalon led him quickly to the thought of his partner. He smirked at his memory; after the police had arrived and set up their perimeter, he'd called Troy with a warning about the mysterious letter and the guard that had been placed. The other surgeon hadn't wanted to talk – said he had to "spring into action and rescue a fair maiden from spending a Friday night in with only William Carlos Williams for company!" That Christian; may he never lose his gift of gab ...

Suddenly it hit him: _Christian_. THAT was what felt wrong. The disquiet, that creeping sense of unease – it centered on him. The only one involved in this whole unnatural situation who wasn't quietly at home behind an armed guard. McNamara quickly went to the phone, dialed his friend's cell.

Five rings ... "Please hold while the party blah blah blah ..." voicemail. McNamara left a call-me-ASAP message, and was even more worried than before. What to do next? Well, it wasn't hard to figure out which fair maiden Troy had meant; that William Carlos Williams business was a dead giveaway that it wasn't one of the usual lingerie models. Now if only her number were listed ... There was an Avalo in the phone book, a couple of Avallones, but only one Avalon, K. Excellent.

He dialed. There was a ring, a pickup – then a bang as the phone was slammed down at the other end. _What the hell...? _Maybe the two were just, well, busy, so to speak. But then, why hadn't Troy simply turned his phone off, sending all calls directly to voicemail? Besides, while his partner could conceivably be that rude, he doubted it of the woman. No question about it: his instinct was correct, and something WAS wrong. So what to do next?

McNamara picked up the telephone for one last time, dialed a number he knew was open 24/7. "This is Dr. Sean McNamara. I need to speak to Lt. Horatio Caine."

XX

As they moved down the hallway and into the stairwell, Karen began to feel a breath of hope. She had no idea how this madman had made it to her apartment without being seen, but surely there was no chance that he'd walk out herding a naked woman before him and it not be noticed. So she concentrated on picking her way carefully down the stairs, trying to spare the tender soles of her bare feet, planning to scream like a banshee at the first sight of another human being.

To her carefully concealed astonishment, when they reached the bottom of the stairs, Pierce pointed her not toward the fire exit at the rear, but the lobby door. Behind which, she knew, the police lay in wait. "That way," he insisted, with a wave of the sword. Then his eyes and grin glinted at her. "I know what you're thinking. And you're in for a surprise."

Her throat tightened. What did that mean? Had he somehow been able to kill everyone in the lobby – the night guard, the police on stakeout, maybe a couple of her innocent neighbors? Karen steeled herself and stepped through the door, Pierce behind her like an extra shadow.

Everything seemed perfectly normal. There was the building security guard at the desk, absently scanning a newspaper; those two men in t-shirts and chinos, making quiet conversation, were probably the cops. No one turned toward the door; no one had heard it open, or the footsteps. Three armed men were ignoring a woman stripped bare and the man conveying her at swordspoint. It was quiet in the lobby, far too quiet – Karen sucked air for a scream, but was only able to force out a small whimper of sound. They didn't turn. The only response came from Pierce, who chuckled in answer. Then it hit her: _they didn't even see her. They heard nothing._

Pierce came closer and put his free hand on her shoulder. His voice seemed to reverberate through the lobby – but to her ears only. "You had no idea, didn't you? Weren't you even curious as to how I could come through here a few minutes ago with a six-foot, 185-pound, naked man over my shoulders? I haven't feared your stupid cops – or anyone else, for that matter – in decades!" His lips were next to her ear, the voice gone low and insinuating. "The secrets led me to the power, which led to more power, and tonight, under the dark of the moon, I take the final step..." From the corner of her eye Karen saw his tongue snake across his lips. Then he gave her a push, and they moved on, out the door and into the night, unheard and unseen, shielded by some ghastly alchemy she couldn't even guess at.

As if flaunting his power, Pierce had parked his vehicle neatly between two staked-out police vehicles: a nondescript old Ford sedan and a dark van that had to be a listening post. Between them, the black BMW X5 SUV gleamed like a jewel flanked by pebbles, and nobody was taking the slightest notice of it. "Just to let you know that I meant what I said," Pierce said as he opened the back door. "I haven't killed him – yet."

Karen gasped. On the floor of the vehicle lay Christian Troy, as bare as herself, absolutely immobile, eyes open in a frozen stare. "Oh, I know he looks dead." There was relish in the voice, and mockery. "But if you look really close, you'll see breathing, and a blink now and again. He can see and hear everything; just can't react to any of it. Cool, huh? A little formula of my own: mostly curare, but with a couple of secret ingredients. Paralyzes all voluntary functions. A slightly higher dose, and the automatic functions shut down too. But you don't have to be a doctor to load and stick in a needle, do you?"

Appalled, she could only stare down and sob, "Oh, Christian ... I'm sorry." His eyes blinked, rolled up toward her, swam with tears.

"Yes, she's sorry," Pierce gloated from behind her, then stepped forward, leaned in close over the paralyzed form. "So are you, I'm sure. You should have listened to me when I gave you the chance. Do you remember what I said about the _asvamedha_? The horse sacrifice? Well, the secrets don't end there. There is another secret, even greater and more terrible: the secret of the _purushamedha_. And you'll have the honor of witnessing something unseen for a thousand years. Whether you want it or not."

"I beg you," Karen pleaded, "let him go. You've got what you want. Please, just leave him here now; he's in no shape to raise an alarm, and we'll be well away before your drug wears off, won't we? I promise not to fight you, I'll do as you say, just let him go..." Pleading melted into crying.

"That's enough. Get in the goddamned car." Pierce slammed the back door, yanked open the front passenger one. "You're going up front. With me. And put on your goddamned seat belt."

She choked down the tears again and obeyed silently, taking the opportunity to tuck the tracer chip snugly between her seat and the belt latch as he busied himself with getting in, securing his sword, and starting the car. A quick, surreptitious check of Pierce's preoccupied expression satisfied her that he hadn't seen a thing. He brought the BMW to smoothly purring life and pulled away with his prisoners, leaving the unsuspecting police behind.

They soon got to the highway, heading south; Karen could not yet tell whether their destination was in the Keys or the Everglades. Islands or swamp... either way, they'd be hard to track. That tracer would be their only chance – if the police even thought to check it. They obviously had not the slightest suspicion that anything had happened...

James Pierce was in fine spirits, and wanted his captives to know it. "You two had been having a good time this evening, weren't you?" Troy could not answer, and Karen would not. "Although I don't know what it shows about your judgment, Karen darling. Do you really know anything about this man? Did he tell you the truth, before or after you made the beast with two backs? Let ME tell you the truth about the filthy goat you've given your heart to! You should know how this polluted whore has been feeding his poisoned soul for years – "

"SHUT UP!" she roared, astonishing her captor into silence. "Just shut up! Do with us as you will, but we'll die with more dignity if we don't have to listen to you for an hour and a half first!"

Pierce glowered darkly at her for a moment, then turned back to the road and drove on in resentful, iron silence. About five minutes had passed when he muttered, "It wasn't supposed to have happened this way, you know."

Getting no answer, he went on anyway. "I had it all figured out. The only gamble was supposed to be whether all three of you lasted long enough, and you all did. Three beautiful baby girls, each alone in the system without love or family, me constantly checking in to make sure they never were adopted, never got close to anyone who would love them with a clean and honest love. And then the scorpion, a gift from me that not only made them – you – fit for offering, but made tracking easier, isolation from normal people almost guaranteed, and would draw the worst kind of men. Two turned out exactly as I predicted, but just what the hell happened with you? It must have been those fucking books. When the loneliness and despair got to be too much, you were supposed to dull it with drugs and sell your body wherever you found a buyer, not cry over Sonnets From the fucking Portuguese!"

Karen slowly turned to him, horror in her face, and now she answered. "So it was you – you, personally – ruining my life all these years?!"

"Trying to, goddammit. Have you any idea how much money you've cost me? Remember those Syrian students whose complaints about your anti-Arab racism got you thrown out of college? Twenty-five K each!"

She sighed as if exhausted by the memory. "The university never let me face them, and I had no idea why they were accusing me. But with no family support and no money for a defense ... So you were behind it. Just like you bribed my foster parents so you could give me this dreadful mark."

"And just like I had to pay that boyfriend of yours to dump you before he went off to law school in New York." A snarl. "Columbia University Law isn't cheap. Not to mention that stipend he demanded – "

"PLEASE don't tell me," she begged softly. "I don't want to know what my love was worth to him."

"Whatever. So I figured it was my lucky day when you ended up in the hands of a man you had no idea is the most notorious satyr this side of South Beach. I'm waiting for him to use you, break you and hang you out to dry, but what happens? He goes and fucking falls in love! At least that finally gives me something I can use." His eyes briefly raked Christian Troy's motionless body before he turned the baleful gaze back on her. "Blair loathed herself and her life so deeply that she liked the idea of going out in a quick, painless blaze of glory in front of all her so-called friends. As for Vanessa, she was so thirsty for sensation that she eagerly played a little game involving bondage and a thirty-inch blade. Stupid bitches." He paused for a snicker. "But you're going to cooperate so you won't have to watch your lover die by inches."

TO BE CONTINUED


	7. Martyr's Moon chapter 7

Martyr's Moon 

(Nip/Tuck / CSI:Miami)

by wordwolf

Disclaimers in Part I.

PART VII.

Horatio Caine pulled up to the building in a very ugly mood. It wasn't often he got home and into bed at a decent hour, and to be rousted out of it on account of Sean McNamara was just too irritating. What DID that pompous flesh shaper know about police work, after all? In some kind of lather about not being able to reach his partner, according to the night desk when they contacted Caine. Said partner, that even more annoying Christian Troy, was paying a visit to the woman whose home was being surveilled. A quick call to the ranking officer on the stakeout had confirmed that. It had also confirmed that no one had entered or left the place since. Caine felt only a little short of stupid coming out here himself, most likely for nothing.

As Caine pulled up, a glance took in the two unmarked cars and the listening-post van ... but who was that just now pulling up and getting out of that Audi? The criminalist peered through the streetlight shine, and his irritation deepened. _What is McNamara doing here?! Damn. He's got no business at my stakeout! _Caine moved to intercept. "Good evening, Dr. McNamara; mind telling me why you're here?"

"YOU'RE here because I called," the surgeon replied sourly. "I'm here because this involves my partner and my patient. My responsibility."

"I wouldn't say that, Doctor." Caine smiled without feeling it. "This is the responsibility of Miami-Dade PD."

"Then meet it." McNamara did not change his tone at all. "Why can't I reach them? Where are they?"

"Upstairs, no doubt. According to the officers on the scene here, no one has entered the building or left it since Dr. Troy came. So relax."

"Not until I see for myself!"

Caine sighed. These damn civilians meant well, but they so often got in the way. A quick check of the apartment ought to be enough to satisfy this fussy mother hen of a doctor. Again, Caine inwardly cursed this pointless interruption of a rare pleasant night. "Then please come with me, Dr. McNamara."

They stopped in the lobby for Caine to check with the officers inside. Of course, they confirmed the uneventful evening. The CSI chief wondered, a little uneasily, if the perpetrator had somehow been tipped off, changing his plans in a way they couldn't anticipate. More likely, though, he simply hadn't yet made his move.

Into the elevator, up to the fourth floor, to the correct door ... Caine knocked. Waited through silence, and knocked again. "Miss Avalon? Are you there?"

"Christian?" McNamara called behind him. Then, "See what I mean? Something's wrong!"

Caine barely kept from rolling his eyes. "Please, Dr. McNamara. They're probably just asleep." By way of demonstration, he put his hand on the doorknob ... and to his astonishment, turned it.

"I told you!" growled McNamara. He pushed past the criminalist, barged into the apartment in the lead, calling, "Christian! Miss Avalon! Anyone home?" He paused in the dark living room, an irritated policeman right behind him, when he saw the sole light beaming brightly from the bedroom. "I don't think they're asleep, Lieutenant."

Now Caine pushed past, hurried into the bedroom to see a single bedside lamp alight beside a rumpled bed. A rumpled, empty bed. The rest of the little apartment was dark, uninhabited. Caine stopped, utterly stunned – and suddenly afraid.

"CHRISTIAN!" McNamara's voice had taken on a frenzied edge. He whirled on Caine, pointing to the neatly folded suit and aligned shoes on the floor beside the bed. "My partner is not here. His clothes are. What now, Lieutenant Caine?"

"There's no way this could have happened." Caine's voice had gone low and dangerous as he forced down the rising fear.

The surgeon snorted at him. "Right. 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy'! I bet you hear that one all the time."

Caine glared venomously at the other and quickly shook off the spell of his astonishment. "I don't know what went down here, Doctor, but I intend to find out." He snatched out his phone and called the surveillance van. "This is Caine. Activate the tracer on Karen Avalon. Now. No, she DID leave the building!"

McNamara drew close to hear what he could. There was silence for a moment, then a stunned voice from the other end: "Jesus Christ, Lieutenant ... she's in the 'Glades! But how ..."

Caine snapped the phone shut. "We'll need the Hummer," he muttered half to himself as he spun and hurried out. "You'd better go home now, Dr. McNamara."

"Forget it!" the other rumbled, hurrying right on the criminalist's heels. "What kind of pussy do you take me for? My partner, my patient, and I'm coming!"

In a whirl of bewilderment and horror, Caine wasn't about to bother arguing with the pest anymore. Let him see how far he could push that Audi into the swamp, if he wanted ... and whether or not he could stand before a ruthless and unnatural killer.

XX

From the rear of the X5 came a faint sound of scratching, then a soft moan. Pierce didn't bother looking toward it. "Looks like the dose is starting to wear off. Perfect timing. You hang in there, Christian darling; only a little farther. Then the fun begins."

Apprehensively Karen looked toward the back. Troy was indeed beginning to stir, but only a little, and seemed racked by pain as he tried. She turned back to their abductor. "Please, Mr. Pierce, why don't you let him go? It's me you want. I swear, if you release him, I'll cooperate fully – dear God, I'll let you kill me, I won't make a sound!"

He looked hard at her. "How can you make that promise?"

"You have my word."

"It's worthless." He shook his head. "Fear changes everything, and I can't risk this. I've planned too long and worked too hard ... and far, far too much is at stake. In the _asvamedha_, if even a single human finger touched the sacred horse before the blade fell, the entire rite was invalidated. I've read between the lines of the ancient records; as far as I can tell, the true _asvamedha_ was never performed successfully ... or the world would be a very different place today. This triple _purushamedha_ I complete tonight, in the second dark of the moon, will be the most awesome rite ever attempted. After twenty-five years of preparation, I don't intend to fail!"

"You said _asvamedha_ means a horse sacrifice, right?"

"Right."

"So _purushamedha_ means ... " She couldn't finish.

"Right." His smile was cruel.

From behind them came a low sound of sobbing.

Pierce chuckled and went on. "Don't think this is the first time I've called upon these forces. As you could probably tell about me – my strength, my youth, the things I can do – I've been doing this for more years than you dare imagine. This will be the final rite I will ever perform. The powers I invoke will be inconceivable – and mine to control. And your dear Christian Troy is my insurance of success. You're not going to want to see what I do to him if you don't cooperate."

Karen glared defiantly at him. "What if I'm willing to sacrifice him in order to thwart you?"

"You're not." The cruel smile sharpened. "I'm the closest thing to a parent you have; I know you better than anyone, sweet Karen Avalon! I have no fear of you." Smugly he turned back to the road, leaving his captives to silence.

Eventually they turned off the highway. The road grew narrower and darker; ahead they could smell the sweet rank stench of plant rot and stagnant water. The BMW was heading into the great ancient wetlands. Pierce maneuvered the SUV along an unpaved trail, the headlights deepening the darkness to all sides, and spoke again. "I'm actually gratified that it worked out this way. True, the first two offerings were much easier, but greater effort will mean a bigger payoff! The rites always use the secret powers of fluids: water, sperm, blood. But now I can invoke another, equally awesome one." He took his right hand from the wheel, reached for her face, came away with a single perfect drop balanced on one fingertip. "Tears."

XX

The X5 finally ground to a halt on a small spit of solid ground surrounded by the grassy water. Before Pierce killed the lights, Karen could make out the bulk of a vast cypress tree growing out of the swamp and overshadowing the patch of firm ground, and the smaller forms of two large brushpiles, and some kind of cubical lump in the middle of the tiny peninsula. She could tell that her captor had been here before; this spot had been prepared. Prepared for her... for her violation and death.

"Get out," Pierce commanded, releasing the doorlocks. "And please don't be so silly as to try to run away. It's too dark to see the trails, the place is swarming with alligators ... and I don't have to remind you who will be left behind with me."

He didn't have to. Karen stepped silently from the vehicle, trying through the darkness to make out the details of the killing ground, looking desperately for anything that might be turned to the captives' advantage. But the brushpiles were just that: brushpiles. The low, lumpish block was too sinister to look at closely. There was something hanging from a bough of the cypress that didn't look like moss. Nothing that could be used.

Meanwhile Pierce swung himself to the ground, took up his sword again, and opened the back of the SUV. "Time to go, Dr. Troy!" he sang. As Karen watched, incredulous, he was able to pass one arm under the feebly stirring body and swing the six-foot bulk up onto one shoulder. Troy moaned, his limbs in an agony of pins-and-needles as the drug was releasing him – but too slowly to fight back. He tried to swing at Pierce, aim a kick at him, anything, but mustered no more speed or force than a baby. Pierce handled him with no more effort than he would a cotton-stuffed doll.

"Please don't hurt him," Karen implored him.

"Not unless you make me." Pierce pointed with his sword to a spot on the turf beside the block. "Sit down and wait there. Don't try anything stupid."

She obeyed, and watched as he carried her lover to the tree where the shadowy thing dangled. With starlight and the wan phosphorescence of the swamp the only light, she could barely see what was happening ... A hand was forced up, a metallic click sounded; repeated with the other hand. Pierce stepped away, leaving Troy hanging from the limb of the cypress by his wrists. On a chain.

"Almost ready," Pierce murmured as he headed for the brushpiles. In a few seconds he had set them alight, and lurid firelight spilled across the night, reddening everything around. Now the prisoners could see their tormentor's satisfied look as he appraised his preparations. He turned from the bonfires, strode over to Karen, stood above her. "You know it's time, Karen." She nodded, not looking up at him. "Lie down." She didn't move for a moment. "I said, LIE DOWN!" He brandished the blade; this time she slid to the turf, unresisting. Now she met his eyes, her expression hard and unreadable. "That'll do. Now shut up and don't move. Any resistance, and I'll be slicing pieces off your pretty doctor."

"I know." Karen tensed where she lay and went silent, waiting for the unthinkable. She did not take her eyes off her tormentor for a moment.

Pierce closed his own eyes, turned his face up toward the moonless sky, and began a chant. Within a few syllables, both prisoners gave up any attempt to guess the language he used. Alternately sibilant and guttural but always harsh, it grated cruelly on their ears, almost causing physical pain. It sounded unnatural, some kind of loathsome glossolalia never meant to be spoken by human mouths. A language fit only for curses.

As he recited, obviously with the confidence of long practice, Pierce brought a hand to his crotch, opened his pants, released an organ already swollen with anticipation. In the firelight, it looked more like the horn of a beast than any part of a man. His chant building, rising, the sorcerer stretched himself upward, straining toward the sky, his sword raised to the invisible moon. Soon, mercifully, the awful words ended, the blade was lowered, and Pierce opened his eyes again to look down at the one who lay below him. The cruel smile split his face, and he sank down toward her, laying the sword aside on the turf, reaching for her naked form.

Troy cried out in anguish to watch Pierce plunge to his knees, straddling Karen, one hand going to her breast and the other to her throat. _Oh God, if only I were free..._ Helpless, he couldn't tear his gaze away as Pierce lined himself up for the thrust. Their captor closed his eyes again, panting with excitement, tightening his grip on his prisoner.

Karen made no sound and no movement, steeling herself against the attack, by sheer will fighting to feel nothing. Surreptitiously her right hand reached out, pawing, searching – finding. Her fingers curled, then locked around the hilt of the sword.

TO BE CONTINUED


	8. Martyr's Moon chapter 8 and end

MARTYR'S MOON 

(Nip/Tuck / CSI:Miami)

by wordwolf

Disclaimers in Part I.

PART VIII.

As he saw the sword lift, Christian Troy's heart lifted with it. A sudden rush of confidence flooded him; he felt much of his old strength returning to his drugged body. His legs could now hold his weight, and he could see a glint of hope.

And then Pierce's hand locked around Karen's wrist like a steel shackle.

"Drop it," he commanded coolly. Karen only glared her defiance up at him, bit back the pain and said nothing. He shook his head as if amused and repeated, "Drop it! Look, I have to give you credit for your courage, but we've reached endgame. Drop the sword!"

"Can't fault a girl for trying," she growled back. "Let Christian go!"

Pierce sighed, an edge of mockery in his breath. "Have it your way." He slowly squeezed; bone gave way, and Karen shrieked in agony, releasing the hilt. He caught it up almost before it hit the ground. "You asked for that, Karen. You asked for _this_, too." Smoothly he withdrew himself and stood up, enclosing his member back into his pants.

"What are you going to do?" she whimpered, cradling her crushed wrist.

"What I promised." The firelight reddened his smile and his blade as he turned toward the prisoner chained to the tree.

"Oh, my God, no – please, spare him, he didn't do anything ...!"

"Shut up. You gambled and lost." The sorcerer ambled the few steps over to his other captive. "You know who to blame for this, Christian."

Troy tried to steel his still-tingling body as Pierce approached, raised the sword. It hung poised for a moment, then the heavy round pommel of the hilt smashed against Troy's right side. His scream ripped the night; Pierce chuckled coldly and observed, "Not bad. Think I shattered two ribs there, or was it only one?"

Sobbing with anguish, Troy choked out, "Damn you, Pierce ..."

"As if any power is listening to _you_." Pierce turned back to the woman, his gaze imperious upon her as she knelt on the damp turf, holding the broken limb. "Did you get the message? You WILL keep your promise, little girl. Fight me again, and he'll pay for it again, not you. And I've got a very good imagination for that sort of thing. Maybe next time, I'll pull a branch from the fire – "

"Enough!" she wailed. "I'm sorry! I swear, you'll have no more trouble from me. Just do what you must, and get it over with quickly, I implore you."

Triumph shone in his eyes. "Lie down again. Lie down, and this time don't you dare try a thing." His grin broadened as he watched her lower herself before him again. Once again he released the hardened horn of his member; once again he raised his blade and his voice in the awful, unknown recitation. His prisoner lay as if dead already. Only the leaping flames made the scorpion image stained into her flesh appear to live and crawl.

The sorcerer completed the diabolical chant, stabbed his sword into the earth, and plunged again onto Karen's body. Troy watched and wept, in agony inside and out, unable to believe the nightmare that enclosed them. The violation he witnessed was like nothing else. To compare it to love was blasphemy, but neither was it anything like the natural heat of lust, or even the bestial rage of rape. This was something cold, tainted, utterly unspeakable.

Finally Pierce moaned and shuddered in his release, and the first phase of the dreadful rite was complete. True to her word, the woman had not uttered a sound or moved a muscle as he took her. After a moment to recover his breath and strength, he withdrew and rose again. "Good. You learned. Now get up and go over to the block. You know what to do." Pale in the firelight, still trying to protect her right wrist, she rose trembling and approached him. On her face, in her eyes, there were no illusions as to her fate.

Through the crimson haze of his own pain, Troy cried, "NO, Karen! Run! Please don't do this; I'm not worth it!"

She turned streaming eyes to him. "My mind is made up. Please, Christian, don't make this any harder than it has to be." With that she turned away again, knelt down before the block, and slowly lowered her head.

Troy kept howling in his desperation, this time to his captor. "You're mad, Pierce! Why the hell are you doing this? You'll get nothing out of it but three dead women! You don't really believe all that bullshit about secret powers – "

The other's laughter was harsh and cruel. "And after what you've seen, how can you NOT believe it? Have you forgotten a squad of police who saw and heard nothing? A man whose name and face you couldn't recall within minutes of meeting? Who hasn't aged in decades? What's YOUR explanation, man of science that you are?"

"I don't have one, and I don't give a damn!" Troy flexed his recovering muscles wildly against the shackles. "All I care is that you let her live. Can't you appease your secret powers, whatever the hell they are, with my life instead of hers?"

Karen's head rose from the block; she turned toward them. "Christian, no!"

Pierce ignored her. He swaggered over to his other prisoner, stopping to pluck his sword back out of the turf, and lowered his voice to a mocking, dangerous register. "You have no idea how much I enjoy emotional displays like this. There will be more of them, many more, when tonight's rite is finished and I come into my own. You'll have the honor to witness the change, and you can be the first to bow down to me – the first of many millions."

Troy met the cold eyes. "Go to hell."

Pierce smiled. "No need. I'll bring it here by dawn." He crossed the firelit clearing again, returning to the block and the woman kneeling beside it.

Karen Avalon watched him approach, and knew what he wanted of her. Tearing her gaze away from her captive lover, she returned her head to the block. Pierce leaned low over her and spoke softly, almost tenderly. "Really, I hadn't intended for any of you three to suffer so much, but now you know why, in your case, it couldn't be helped."

"I don't care," she sobbed back. "Please, end it."

He bowed his head gravely. "I need you to die instantly, and I promise you will. You know how strong I am, and I will strike true. Trust me; you won't feel a thing." Gently he gathered up her hair, parted it and lay it to the sides of her neck so as not to deflect the blow. With that, the sorcerer stepped back, looked down to consider her for a moment. Then slowly, carefully, he raised the blade.

Maddened with grief and agony, Christian Troy saw only one desperate chance. He gathered every ounce of his weight and strength, reached up toward the bough he was chained to ... then flung himself toward the earth with all he had, straining against the chains, the tree, the cruel fate of his lover, in a single moment of supreme effort.

And the branch splintered and gave way.

Troy barely kept his balance as he broke from the tree, staggering on his bare feet, a meter of iron almost hitting his head as the fetters tumbled down; then he was plunging toward the enemy, the chain still binding his wrists, leaping across the few feet of open ground between him and Pierce as the sword flashed down its deadly arc.

Troy hit – and hard.

So did the sword.

Pierce reeled backwards as Troy crashed against him, barely keeping his grip on his weapon. In a tangle of flesh and steel the two men tumbled across the turf and almost fell into one of the bonfires, but Pierce quickly recovered his footing, dug in his heels, and struck back, balling his left fist and slamming hard against Troy's broken ribs. It hurt too much for screaming; Troy let out only a gasp and collapsed to his knees, tears bursting forth.

With a shriek of triumph, the sorcerer brandished his bloody sword. "You're too late, Troy, too goddamned late! I GOT HER! Do you hear me, you stupid goat? I killed your precious Karen Avalon, and it's over – NOTHING can stop me now!" He flung his head back and his arms wide, face upward to the moonless sky; a terrible silence descended on the clearing.

A silence broken by a sobbing voice, weak and growing weaker: "Christian, I love you ... "

Pierce froze, stared. "WHAT? She's not dead? She's still ALIVE? What the fuck ...?"

As fast as the scarlet blaze of pain would let him, Troy turned around. The dance of fire and shadow was hard to read, but he could see that Karen had indeed not been decapitated; she had fallen from the block, a dark gleam of blood flowing from her wounded neck. "My God, Karen!" He struggled to rise, to get to her side ... Her voice had already died away, replaced by the rising sound of motors struggling through the swamp around them.

And that sound was drowned by screaming as Pierce's handsome pale face contorted into a mask of rage. "Troy, you stupid fucking ANIMAL! You've ruined EVERYTHING! Over twenty-five goddamned years of preparation shot to fucking HELL!" The sword, dripping innocent blood, rose again, and Pierce charged after Troy, aiming a last mighty stroke. If the fleeing doctor, crippled by agony and unbalanced by his chains, had not slipped and fallen under the arc of the blade, he would have been cloven in two. Pierce roared in wordless demoniac fury, and drew back the sword for another swing at the fallen man, but staggered back blinded when the headlights stabbed into the clearing. He recovered in seconds and had the sword up and poised, but by then the black Hummer had lurched to a halt and spilled men onto the killing ground.

Horatio Caine was astonished by what he saw, but not enough to keep him from grasping the essentials. His gun was out. "Drop the sword!"

It was as if Pierce didn't see or hear him. He only had eyes for Troy, and revenge. Before the blade could fall, the gun spoke twice; red blossomed on Pierce's black-clad chest. He looked down at himself in bewilderment, then across the clearing at the man who had shot him. He swayed on his feet; the sword fell from his hand, and on weak legs he stumbled toward the edge of the solid ground, where he flung himself into the muddy black water of the swamp.

Among those who had tumbled from the Hummer, a slim dark figure burst from the group and tore for the bank where Pierce had sunk. "No!" Caine shouted to Eric Delko. "The gators, Eric! We'll have Recovery out here at first light; I hit him point-blank in the chest. He won't go anywhere."

Behind the Hummer, an Audi had wobbled shakily to a halt; a slim figure leaped from it and hurried into the light of the twin fires. "Christian! Christian, is that you?"

"Sean!" Troy looked up from where he'd resumed struggling across the damp earth toward the naked, bleeding body beside Pierce's chopping-block. "Help me, Sean; I think she's dying!"

The surgeons converged on Karen; Sean McNamara held back a shudder. So much blood, the right hand bent at such an angle ... He sank down beside her, reached down to put pressure on the neck wound, gasping as he saw his partner come up beside him, bruised, bound and naked. "My God, Christian, what did he do to you?"

"Busted ribs and a chain – it's nothing." Troy's groan belied his words. He was at the flank of his friend and colleague, using whatever strength he had left to grip and close Karen's wound, careful to keep the black iron chain from weighing on her neck and face. The pumping blood, once a torrent, was a trickle now, the pulse of life slowing, the only color in her face from the lurid glow of flames. "Karen, can you hear me?"

She could, but the wisp of voice was fading fast. "Oh, Christian my love ... I can't see you ... please remember me ... please ... " With that, the voice, the pulse, the shallow damp breaths all ceased, into silence.

"NO!" McNamara declared. His hands went from neck to chest to pump her heart with bruising force. Troy wailed and replaced the other's efforts at the wound, putting on the pressure. But there was no more bleeding; only gravity made the blood fall. Karen Avalon was gone.

McNamara moved a hand from her breast to his friend's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Christian. We – we were too late."

"_I_ was too late," the other answered, choking on loss and grief and failure, tears falling on the body of the beloved. "Another second more and I could have saved her ... " His voice dissolved into sobbing as he cradled her, the chain encircling her small, limp form.

Shadows fell across them. The police were gathering, looking down, trying to think of words. "Gentlemen," Caine said softly, holding back the bitter edge of his own failure, "this is a crime scene. We have to – "

"I know." McNamara came to his feet and met the other's eyes, his own moist in the light of the slowly dying fires. "Please, Lt. Caine. Leave him. Leave _them_. You can spare a few minutes; we now have all the time in the world."

END


End file.
